


Rising Shame

by Nimravidae



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Cravats use as gags, Fantasizing, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, Mild Daddy Kink, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, Unrequited Crush, actual emotional masochist ben tallamadge, sin in progress, unedited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 13:21:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5587252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nimravidae/pseuds/Nimravidae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Benjamin Tallamadge knows everything he feels is wrong. He knows it will condemn him, he knows it will ruin him. But damnation feels so sweet so late at night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rising Shame

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iniquiticity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iniquiticity/gifts).



> This isn't my fault.

He supposed that the burning in his chest is shame. The way it pervaded his senses and twines itself deeply through his bones and into the very whole of his being with little regard as to Major Benjamin Tallmadge’s duties—it must be shame. 

Shame makes the most sense to him, shame considers the rules set forth by Congress and God and shame keeps his eyes from wandering and his blood from racing through his body with an alarming heat.

Shame keeps him from speaking when the tent is so warm sweat beads at his Commander-in-Chief’s temple and shame keeps his eyes from following the droplet down the side of his jaw and running into his cravat.

Shame keeps him from admitting what burns farther down inside of him, what leads his blood to boil what leads his heart to break.

Shame keeps him from admitting he was completely and utterly infatuated with George Washington.

But it doesn’t stop him from feeling it, nothing can stop him from feeling it. No matter how hard he begged the night to free him from this torment, he still can’t help the way his heart beats so loud he can’t hear anything else whenever Washington looks at him. Sharp eyes flickering up from the documents that are far more important that Tallmadge’s lack of information, the way he holds his gaze silently before looking back down.

It makes his stomach churn and turn over itself again and again in sickly repetitive motion, rotting his gut like a festering wound. Like Washington could see through all every wall he’d put up to hide himself, like every moment Ben stood outside his tent carefully measuring his breaths so he wouldn’t give himself away was all for naught. Like Washington knows what kept Ben awake until the sun started to tease over the horizon.

He can’t help the way his mind wanders into territories that flood his whole body with that agonizing, white-hot shame.

And the more sickening thing Ben had realized, was how deeply he began to crave that shame. To crave the feeling of disgust that crawled through his body when he was inevitably thrown down from whatever height Washington had elevated him too.

He held Washington’s stern stare longer than he had ever dared to before, he let his eyes wander to his form whenever the Commander-In-Chief’s back was turned on him. He learned to memorize the way his breeches folded around him, the way his cloak billowed to frame his body. He learned to keep his hands from shaking as they folded dutifully behind his back, he learned to keep his chin up as he started down Washington with dry eyes and a splintered heart.

Especially on nights like this—with the air in the tent thick with frustrations and the distant scent of gunpowder and blood clinging to both Major and General. With Washington’s disapproval radiating from him like heat off a campfire, his veiled threats to strip the Culper Ring from him and send him tail-between-legs to Boston still ringing in Ben’s ears.

“Sir, our information was intercepted on it’s way from—“ He’d taken half a step forward, his voice cutting off before Washington even spoke to interrupt him. He took a smart step back, clearing his throat and falling back into a stiff position at the power of the look in Washington’s eye.

He doesn’t want excuses.

He doesn’t want you.

“It was a mistake sir.”

“Yes,” Washington agreed, his voice even and deceptively soft. “It was.” Ben braced himself, his gut clenching hard for the retaliation.

 _Say I failed you,_ he thinks to himself, _say you don’t want me anymore, say you’ve never wanted me. Say you loathe my advice; say you loathe me._

_Say you don’t love me, not how I love you. Tell me again that I’ll never be your son._

“You are dismissed, Major Tallmadge.” Ben clenched his jaw against the shake in his chin—determined not to let Washington see him break but the way he looked at him could have shattered men made of stone. Could have broken down the most war-hardened generals into dust adrift on the wind, could have killed lesser men where they stood. Washington fixed Ben with a penetrating stare.

“Gather yourself and return to your tent.”

There it was again, rising and staining his cheeks in a blotched heat. Shame, his closest ally. Swallowing down his rising arguments, Benjamin turned and ducked out of the tent, swallowing down bitter air of the campsite as if he’d been submerged.

His resolve started to crumble, the trembling starting in his gut and lashing itself around his limbs. He choked back a pained noise, only half-succeeding as another solider shot him a confused, if slightly worried look over his shoulder.

The walk was more of a drunken half-stumble back to his tent, praising the Lord that had clearly abandoned him that it was empty when he could finally find his cot. He laid there, still in his full dress, still feeling the blood rushing through his body and the echo of his heartbeat throbbing his head.

And he laid there.

And he laid there.

The night turned darker, soldiers sleeping where they sat around fires, in tents, on rough grounds with nothing but scraps of cloth to keep them warm.

Ben stared at the dirty ceiling of his tent trying to will away all the ill thoughts he harbored, knowing he’d fail. Knowing he’d end his night the way he did all the rest—shamefully stripping away his garments in exchange for night clothes, covering himself with his threadbare blanket and letting his mind wander to how he’d wished Washington had grabbed him roughly.

How he’d wished the tall General had snarled in his face, bruising his fingerprints into his wrists as he growled inches from Ben’s face--hurling every word he kept back as that hellfire temper he’d tampered was unleashed. At least then he would say what was on his mind—at least then he would tell Ben something of significance instead of just starting at him with age-hardened eyes just as unreadable as Ben was an open pamphlet.

Those eyes. There had been moments in Ben’s life where he was fully broken down before his father—taught the ways of the lord through experience—but never had he felt so totally and completely exposed to his core than when he came under Washington’s gaze.

They were filled with an intelligence, a burning flame, a passionate drive that Ben could only ever hope to harbor a flicker of—yet when he looked at him they were so cold. So empty, he wished he could fill him with the same rampant fervor that others did. Draw a smile from his lips like others did.

Feel his lips pressed fast against his cheek in greeting like _others_ did.

Feel his lips pressed against his own. Ben pressed his eyes shut, fighting back the rising tide of pain within him. No, no, no. He will not lie there and fantasize about what his hand would feel like cupping the side of his jaw, he will not lie there and fantasize about what his hair would feel like between Ben’s fingers.

He will not lie there and think about what his weight would feel like pressed against the length of Ben’s body, what his calloused palms would feel like along his stomach, up to his chest… He was glad of the late hour when the first hint of a whine escaped his lips. His entire body aflame with desire mixing with a deviant’s shame, he kept his eyes shut—resigning himself to his own weaknesses as he tried to imagine his own hand was that of his Commander-in-Chief’s instead.

Running down his chest, slowly curving over the growing hardness in his breeches. He wondered if Washington would tease him, if he would take his time to kiss Ben, to make him feel important or if he would shove him down to his knees and use his braid as a reign to guide him. Ben caught his lower lip between his teeth to stifle another rising whine and the very idea. He shivered, trying not to make his movements too obvious as he rolled onto his side, shaking fingers untying his breeches to pull his cock free.

Maybe he would pull him up by his braid as well, loosening the tie and letting it all tumble down over his neck as he guided him back towards his desk.

Maybe he would push Ben back onto it--scattering papers, inkpots, and quills across the dirty floor and take him roughly. Maybe he would kiss him, digging his fingertips into Ben’s arms to still him from writhing too much against him. Worried it would end the encounter all too soon but Ben knew he would beg for more. He would plead with his General for more.

 _Kiss me. Touch me. Do something. Do anything_.

He closed his teeth harder around his lip, trying his damndest not to leave marks on himself that would be so obvious come morning. How would Washington keep him from alerting the troops as to their unlawful coupling?

Eyes opening just a hairs breadth, Ben fixated on his salvation—in both reality and fantasy. He grabbed for it with his free hand, balling up his own abandoned cravat the best he could to stuff it between his teeth. He could imagine Washington, his steady hands untying it from around Ben’s throat, dropping kisses and bites and bruises at the rarely exposed flesh. Knowing no one would see it but him.

He’d coax Ben’s mouth open, not that he’d need any convincing, and whisper praises.

Just the thought made Ben’s cock twitch in his own hand, imagining Washington’s heavy voice telling him how well he had done, how much he had helped. He’d time his stroked on Ben’s cock with his words, squeezing him just right as Ben was doing to himself now.

 _“You work so hard, Benjamin,”_ he heard Washington’s voice whisper, “ _I’m so proud of you.”_ He’d work him harder, pressing his own hardness against Ben’s thigh as proof of how much he wanted him, of how much he needed him.

Ben’s muffled noises built even behind his makeshift gag, but his desire to not be found out was overshadowed by the rising heat he felt as his fantasy grew more and more in time with his own hand’s work. Washington rutting against him, his hand down Ben’s breeches, praise running from his lips like the sweetest wine.

_“You are beautiful, you are magnificent, you are wonder to behold. I'm proud of you, son.”_

His body trembled as the false voice in his mind curled around that word again, “ _son_.”

Broken cries held back by the cloth, Ben was blinded by the trembling shockwave of pleasure and shame that threaded itself through him on that one word. Son.

 

 


End file.
